


Foreordained

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (because Doctor Strange), (but slightly different magic than canon magic), (which sounds weird), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Howard is an ominous king, I don't hate him nearly as much as this fic implies, I liked Agent Carter way too much for that lol, M/M, Tony is prince, Tumblr Prompt, hell yeah, magical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Based on a prompt I ran into on tumblr: Stephen is an Immortal Sorcerer. He has served countless Kings, faked countless deaths, bided his time, waiting for that one prince born to be his…





	Foreordained

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few nights ago to try out Ironstrange/the MCU for the first time and enjoyed it enough that I thought I'd slap it up here. Will I ever again write a fic longer than 2k?? Stay tuned to find out (but probably not because I'm lazy af)

“It’s not my forte, Sire.” Stephen said, bowing his head in an approximation of humility. In truth he was only looking for details: admiring the edge of his cloak, the purple of a nearby flower, how the grass rippled from a steady wind. He’d never been very good at serving masters—who with his power enjoyed bowing to another?—but the kings of this realm had long since proven that they could make his life… difficult, despite their lack of mystical knowledge. Wong had taught him this little trick ages ago. Bow your head to admire your own boots, Stephen. Let them interpret the action as they wished.

 

Wong had taught him a lot over the years. He gave Stephen unprompted, horrifically blunt advice and in return Stephen siphoned off some of his magic each year to keep the annoying man alive. It felt like something close to a bargain. For one of them anyway.

 

“I thought you were a  _master_  of the Mystic Arts?” Howard said.

 

“Yes, and though I have many specialties, I fear that fortune telling isn’t one of them. Sire,” Stephen added. He gnashed the word between his teeth.

 

“Mm. Then what is?”

 

“…Battle magic.”

 

From the corner of his eye Stephen caught the grin that curled along the King’s lips. Damn. He’d underestimated him. Howard draped himself across a portable throne with nothing like dignity, attention focused more on some field entertainment behind them than the sorcerer here to visit. He’d introduced himself, foregoing the standard fanfare, and had gone so far as to offer Stephen the right-hand seat at his table come dinner. He didn’t trust the generosity, but Stephen had hoped that his lazy, carless attitude spoke of an equally incompetent commander. Not so. Stephen knew smiles like that, and they only grew on the lips of dangerously ambitious men.  

 

He’d seen it enough in the mirror, years ago.

 

“I’ll have to remember that,” Howard murmured.

 

Stephen bent his head a little lower.

 

His concerns were waved aside and Howard gestured for the supplies to be brought out. Over the years Stephen had performed similar services for all manner of beings across incalculable realms. Most demanded feats that they could not pay the price for, but then, it wasn’t Stephen’s job to warn them of the future; only placate them in the present. Wars stopped. Wars begun. Power at their fingertips. Once (only once) the raising of the dead. None of it ended well. This, however, was safe enough. The gods cared little for mortals taking quick peeks into their futures.

 

Their lives were so short. It hardly mattered.

 

“Thank you,” Stephen said, taking the bowl from an attendant. He let his cloak receive the water and tried not to smirk at the gasps around him, how the King suddenly sat up straight in his chair. Honestly. They were like children impressed with the simplest toys. Although, tiny displays of power  _were_  to his advantage. Just as underselling his abilities was always a prudent choice. Better to surprise than disappoint.

 

…advantageous, provided he wasn’t undermined by a friend. Stephen shot a glare at his cloak when it made to flick water at his face. The edge of its fabric froze… and finally subsided. For now.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Stephen muttered and his cloak ruffled in amusement.

 

The scrying ceremony was simple, but like everything involving magic there was a level of presentation involved. Stephen took his time kneeling in the grass and placing the bowl so that it caught the setting sun along its edge. The water was poured in slowly, Stephen paying attention to each and every drop, looking for imperfections. He’d requested purified water, but that didn’t always mean the same thing to commoners as it did to a sorcerer. This, however, would do.

 

Again with the bowing. “Sire. I need a bit of your blood… as well as the blood of a confidante.”

 

“A confidante?” The request seemed to throw Howard and for a moment Stephen enjoyed watching him flounder. It didn’t last though and a second later he was calling out in their native tongue, the collection of onlookers parting to reveal someone in the distance.  

 

Someone who, to be quite frank, took Stephen’s breath away.

 

Not in any cliche, mortal meaning of the word. The sorcerer’s definition. There were places and things so infused with mystical energy that they literally stopped the heart and breath of anyone who looked upon them. Momentarily. Stephen had experienced it when he’d first gotten his glimpse of the dark dimension; when he’d first laid eyes on his Master, The Ancient One. ( _She_ Stephen bowed to.) He’d felt his heart stop the first time he’d cast the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak and the day he’d had the honor of holding the Wand of Watoomb. Those moments made sense to him. But  _this_?

 

“My son,” Howard said, gesturing to the man. With a start Stephen managed to pull himself out of the man’s aura to actually get a look at his face. The resemblance was uncanny, though where Howard’s face was indifference hiding the potential for cruelty, this man’s face was cruelty… hiding passion. It took Stephen only a moment to see that his scowl and the arrogant tilt of his head were mere masks. He’d seen those in the mirror as well and Stephen approached them without fear. After all, him and arrogance were very old friends. 

 

“Your name,” he demanded and to the man’s credit he didn’t flinch at the Sorcerer Supreme bearing down on him, eyes like chips of ice. He smiled, of all things, and had the gall to lean closer.

 

Only one other mortal had dared as much and Stephen had never been particularly interested in Wong’s lips.

 

“Anthony,” he said, breath holding the mint tea they’d all drank. “Though my friends tend to shorten it. Are you a friend, Sorcerer?”

 

“I am a doctor,  _Tony_. Of a sort. I heal the fabric of our realities and all who live within them. Thus I am, by definition, a friend.” And with that Stephen took Tony’s hand in his own, willing damaged nerves to remember the feel of his skin, the unique texture of his palm. Oh yes, magic held a heavy price for any who were undeserving of it. Stephen’s hands were proof of that and his old mistakes shook violently as he drew the knife into the pad of Tony’s thumb.

 

He was so immersed in his eyes that Stephen hardly noticed the knife sliding across his finger as well. Their bloods mixing. 

 

Howard had a calculating look as Stephen approached him next, loath as he was to turn his back on Tony. His father was a poor substitute and even his cloak seemed disturbed, pulling backwards on a breeze that simply wasn’t there. But Stephen had a job to do. He could ponder Tony’s aura later. For now, he had a King’s future to foretell.

 

Howard’s blood ran thick and Stephen poured it all into the water.  

 

“What do you see?” the King demanded after long moments of utter silence. Everyone in attendance held their breath. Even the grass had grown still. Stephen hadn’t realized how close Tony had crept while he deciphered the imagery until he felt a presence at his back, somehow not enticing him to throw up a shield. There was nothing threatening there. No danger to defend against. Instead Stephen turned so that the first thing he focused on was the amber of the Prince’s eyes. The second was the nick in his own thumb, a tiny river of blood flowing over his ruined hand.

 

“ _Well?_ ” Howard demanded.

 

“I see myself,” Stephen said, sounding faint to his own ears. “I see my symbol.”

 

Without any of his usual fanfare he summoned up a shield, letting the gold emblems hang in the air. Stephen stepped to its side and on the other Tony stepped even closer, not scared like the others. Endlessly curious. Stephen took a moment to admire the balance they made before tearing his eyes away, back to the King.

 

“My symbol,” he repeated. “Each is unique and sorcerers use theirs for a variety of purposes. It… represents us, for lack of a better explanation. It is our essence made visual.” Stephen drew a shaking hand through the lines that had defined his existence for an age now, saving and tormenting him in turn. Golden sparks drifted down to the grass. Those who brought their symbols into the world were calling on power itself. Carved into a wand. Painted on a door. A body. Drawn through the air. Those who  _found_  their symbol already in existence… well.

 

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen this,” he said, half convinced he already knew the answer and  _shaking_  with it. “In your home perhaps. Somewhere. Where has my symbol appeared, Sire?”

 

Deciphering Howard’s expression was impossible, even for one with as much practice as Stephen. The gesture though? Simple. He turned to face Tony again and found such a storm of emotion that it was equally as impenetrable as Howard’s blank, empty stare.

 

Tony drew apart the strings of his shirt though to reveal a birthmark. Or a scar? Something old and familiar. It hardly mattered. Stephen saw his circle, his triangle, the equally spaced polygons surrounding it all.  _His_   _mark_. The more he stared the more obvious it became that this injury was not natural, no matter what the raised flesh implied. He wondered how the Prince had explained it his whole life, but one look into his eyes proved that he hadn’t. Stephen’s arrival was the very best thing of all: the answer to a question.

 

“Hello,” Tony said and this time when they touched the symbol—in the air and over his heart—they began to glow.


End file.
